


Stock'Holmes' Syndrome

by PipMer



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Bromance/Romance whatever the readers vote for, Fluff, Friendship, Friendship/Love, Other, Reader Influenced Plot
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-09-16
Updated: 2012-10-12
Packaged: 2017-11-14 08:59:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,599
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/513529
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PipMer/pseuds/PipMer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John Watson and Sherlock Holmes had known each other for seven years, five months and 26 days.  Captain Watson decided it was high time for him to let his friend know exactly what he meant to him.  Dr. Watson, on the other hand, was less than enthusiastic about the whole thing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Just a fun little foray into John and Sherlock's relationship. You, the reader, get to decide which way their relationship goes. Should it be bromance, or romance? Leave me a note in a comment to let me know your preference. 
> 
> Written in a rush, not beta'd or britpicked, I do hope you enjoy, regardless.
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> **UPDATE 10/12/12: VOTES HAVE BEEN TALLIED AND A DIRECTION HAS BEEN CHOSEN :)**

 

 

 

John Watson and Sherlock Holmes had known each other for seven years, five months and 26 days. Captain Watson decided it was high time for him to let his friend know exactly what he meant to him. Dr. Watson, on the other hand, was less than enthusiastic about the whole thing.

It was Dr. Watson who now stood before the mantel, shifting from one foot to the other as he fingered the unsealed envelope in his hand. The Captain had sat down four hours earlier to pen the missive, then had abruptly disappeared and left the Doctor to handle the situation. He was a brave man, the Captain, but he could only face so much before retreating. The good doctor would see to it that the message was delivered, even when he was having second thoughts.

John sighed. He knew it was time. Sherlock himself deserved to be told these things. John had expressed himself in his blog, to Sherlock's gravestone, and to his therapist, in that order, but never to the man himself. After seven years, what on earth was there to be afraid of?

Swallowing nervously, John reached out a shaky hand and set the envelope against the skull, purple ink displaying the name SHERLOCK to the rest of the room. John turned around, grabbed his jacket, and promptly fled the flat.

 

 

* * *

 

 

_Sherlock,_

_Apologies for being a coward and writing you a note instead of telling you this face to face. Taking into account your aversion to sentiment, I figured this way I would save us both the discomfort. At least that's what I tell myself._

_We have known each other for seven years, and been flatmates for five. In all that time, I never told you what your friendship means to me. I'll cut to the chase, knowing how you appreciate brevity and loath lengthy exposition._

_Sherlock, you are my dearest friend, and have been since the night we chased the cab and cured my limp. I would go so far as to say that I love you; although in what sense I'm not quite sure. Platonically, certainly. Has it tipped into the realm of the romantic? I truly don't know. I can't see myself spending my life with anybody but you. I can't imagine not sharing my life with you at 221B Baker Street. When I think of myself five, ten, even twenty years from now, I don't see a wife and children. I see myself with you, solving cases, chasing criminals, drinking tea in the parlour while you play the violin._

_I'm not exactly sure what it means, but I do know this. That I've never cared for anybody the way that I care for you. And I don't think I ever will._

_Whether or not you return the sentiment isn't really relevant. What matters is how I feel, and I thought it was important that you know. I don't want you to feel obligated to respond or to acknowledge this in any way. Just know that you are loved, and that your friendship is treasured._

_Yours,_

_John._

* * *

John sat in a booth in a back corner of Angelo's, as far away from the entrance as he could get, facing the wall. He had been sitting there for an hour, nursing a beer and listlessly gnawing on an appetiser. He really didn't feel like eating, but he felt bad taking up customer space without purchasing anything, so he bought an order of breadsticks. He tried to quell the uneasy feeling in his stomach, but he wasn't very successful.

Sherlock had texted him about half an hour ago, telling him he was on his way back from Bart's. Surely by now he would have been home and seen John's note. The very thought made John tense up. He really wasn't worried about Sherlock reacting badly. What he was really afraid of was Sherlock's indifference, that he would choose to behave as if John hadn't risked everything by baring his soul. What he desperately wanted was some hint, some gesture showing that he meant _something_ to Sherlock beyond just an assistant and a way to afford rent.

John sighed. He really didn't know what he was expecting. Sherlock didn't do emotions. He barely did friends, John still being his only one. _What was I thinking,_ he thought morosely.

Ten minutes went by, and then his phone beeped.

_Don't turn around; you've been made – SH_

John felt himself tense as Sherlock folded his way into the seat opposite him.

"John."

 

 

* * *

 

 

John flexed his left hand and carefully didn't meet his friend's eyes as he replied, "Sherlock."

Five minutes passed in an uncomfortable silence. Sherlock studied John, and John looked everywhere but at his friend. After what seemed an interminable length of time, someone finally stopped by to take Sherlock's order.

"Ah Billie," Sherlock greeted, eyes never leaving John's face. "I'll have a coffee with two sugars, and the chicken parmesan with side orders of cauliflower and rice pilaf, please. Also, another beer for my friend here."

John glanced at Sherlock. He mumbled a 'thank you' before his gaze dropped away again.

"Very good, Mr. Holmes, your order will be right out," Billie declared before walking away.

Sherlock leaned forward and placed his elbows on the table, bringing his steepled fingers up to his lips. He studied John for a few minutes before he slowly reached out and snagged one of John's breadsticks, bringing it to his mouth to bite into carefully.

John's mouth twitched, and he finally met his friend's gaze properly. "You're actually eating a full meal? Will wonders never cease."

Sherlock smirked. "Don't be ridiculous. Why wouldn't I? We don't have a case."

Warmth bloomed in John's chest at Sherlock's use of the pronoun 'we'. "I know, but you don't usually eat so much at one sitting. You usually spread it out throughout the day."

Sherlock shrugged. "I'm hungry," he stated.

"No, you're bored."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

John huffed in laughter. "I wonder if it's only cold, logical beings who can do that; I always wish I could."

"You wish you were cold and logical?"

"No, I wish I could raise one eyebrow, like you and Spock."

"Who?"

John rolled his eyes. "Why am I not surprised?" He took a bite out of another breadstick.

"Your coffee and beer, sirs," Billie declared as he set the beverages down. "Is there anything else I can get you while you're waiting for your food? Dr. Watson, do you need anything besides your appetiser?"

"No tha…"

"Yes, he'll have the linguini with clam sauce, along with broccoli with cheese sauce, please."

"How did you…."

"That's the dish you always order when you're feeling anxious."

"Yes, that's… that's what I'll have, thank you, Billie."

"Very good, sirs. Enjoy your evening." Billie walked away, leaving the two men alone.

Sherlock leaned forward, wrapping his elegant fingers around his mug. "You know, John, you surprise me. Do you really think that I didn't already know what you revealed in your letter?"

John's eyes flew to Sherlock's. "What?"

Sherlock smiled. "Nothing you wrote is news to me. Surely you know this." He took a sip of his coffee, carefully watching John as he set the cup back down.

John shrugged. "Just wanted to get it out there, I guess. I mean, so that there's no misunderstandings, you know? About where I stand."

"John, anyone who knows you knows exactly where you stand when it comes to me. You don't exactly hold your cards close to the chest," Sherlock said gently.

John swallowed. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable, just forget…"

"You didn't."

"What?"

"You didn't make me uncomfortable. Although it does pain me that you think me incapable of reciprocating."

"Well, you've always made it clear that relationships, and emotions in general, aren't really your area…"

"I'm not incapable, John. Just unwilling, for the most part."

John felt a brief flare of hope before dampening it down. "For the most part?"

 

"Yes. I did tell you once that I've got just one friend. Nothing's changed since then. You must be able to think of instances when I have shown my regard for you. After all this time, surely you must know that I return your sentiment."

Well, that was practically a declaration of love. John thought of Sherlock purchasing beer after finding out Sarah had broken up with him. He thought of a fall off a building. He grinned. But then his grin slowly faded as he realised he had to have clarification on exactly where he stood.

He cleared his throat. "So, what exactly is the nature of…it?"

Sherlock frowned. "What is the nature of what?"

John sighed. "What is the nature of the… sentiment that you return."

Sherlock leaned back as a waiter arrived at their booth with their food. As soon as he left, Sherlock said, "You're wondering if what I feel is platonic or romantic."

John ducked his head as he felt a blush creep over his features. He avoided eye contact as he picked up his fork and started eating.

Sherlock followed his example, only without the avoidance. His eyes never left John's bowed head. A few moments of blessed silence passed as the two men ate. Of course, Sherlock was the one to break it.

"I want whatever you want."

John's mouth muscles stopped mid-chew. He forced a swallow before he said, "What?"

Sherlock huffed in exasperation. "Really, John, you know how I hate repeating myself. Do pay attention. Whatever direction you want our relationship to go, I want that as well."

John's jaw dropped. "Why did you never say anything?"

"What would have been the point? You were clearly very attached to your heterosexual identity, as evidenced by the number of women you paraded through our flat."

"No, nope, not gonna cut it, Sherlock. During the very first meal we shared, you made it quite clear that you weren't interested. Married to your work, remember?"

"I had only just met you, John. I didn't want anything complicating our nascent flatmate arrangement."

John cleared his throat. "So, you're saying it makes no difference to you? Which way our relationship goes, you mean? You have no preference either way?" He felt a small stab of disappointment in his chest.

Sherlock shrugged. "Either way, nothing really changes. I still get to spend my life with you, chasing criminals and solving crime. Taking in horrendous Bond marathons, watching crap telly. Playing Cluedo. Retiring together to the country to raise bees. I still get your companionship and unconditional loyalty. I get the important things, either way." Sherlock continued to eat, showing no outward signs of discomfort or tension as he watched for John's reaction.

John let out his breath slowly. Really, what Sherlock was saying made a lot of sense. They were friends first and foremost. They would always remain so, no matter what else happened between them. Their relationship had survived an eighteen month separation, after all.

Then some of what Sherlock had been saying actually sank in. John huffed in laughter. "Raising bees? Really? You've never expressed interest in apiology before, at least not to me."

Sherlock smiled. "It's an interest I picked up while I was… gone." Sherlock cleared his throat nervously. He knew John grew uncomfortable whenever he mentioned anything having to do with his deception. "I never brought it up because you don't like to be reminded of that time."

John's smile slipped from his face; he reached over and laid his hand over Sherlock's. Sherlock didn't flinch at the intimate touch, and his gaze remained locked on John's. "I'm sorry, Sherlock. I wasn't ready to hear about it when you first came back, but I never meant to imply that you were to remain silent about it forever. I certainly want to hear about the origins of this bee fetish." John squeezed Sherlock's hand and let his own linger there for a few moments before removing it.

"I will tell you about it, later tonight. Bees are quite fascinating creatures, I think raising them will be quite a profitable use of our time when we are no longer working."

John grinned boyishly. "So we're retiring together too, eh? What makes you think that I won't move to America with my wife of 30 years?"

Sherlock smirked knowingly. "No woman could ever tear you away from our life, John, admit it. You said as much in your note. We give each other what we need; you'd never leave that behind."

'You're right, you arrogant git," John said affectionately.

"Of course I am."

"So."

"So?"

"Apparently it's up to me, then. Where we go from here."

"Yes. What's the expression? 'Ball's in your court'?"

"Yes, alright then. Let's enjoy the rest of our meal; maybe by the end of it I'll have come to a decision."

"Alright," Sherlock agreed, giving John a look that was full of affection and fondness.

John's heart skipped a beat. Part of him wanted to reach out and kiss Sherlock to within an inch of his life. Another, very large part of him just revelled in the feeling of being the one person that Sherlock Holmes called friend, of being a person he had been willing to die for. What could possibly compete with that?

The rest of the meal passed in a pleasant manner. The two friends ate and bickered; John sniggered at inappropriate jokes, and Sherlock made outrageous deductions of the other customers. Time passed; shadows started to lengthen as evening encroached. John ordered one more beer; Sherlock's coffee cup was refilled. Empty plates were removed and dessert was declined. Before they knew it, Angelo's was closing.

As Sherlock started to rise to go settle the bill, John reached out and grasped his wrist. Sherlock returned to his seat, giving John an enquiring look. John swallowed.

"I've decided. What it is I want. From you… no, sorry.. for us."

Sherlock waited.

John took a breath; it was now or never. He leaned forward and whispered in Sherlock's ear…..


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tremendous thanks to all you wonderful readers who left input and suggestions for me. If you’ve read the previous chapter’s comments then you’ll know in what direction this story is headed. That being said, I've put the rest of the notes at the end of the chapter to avoid spoilers.
> 
> Here is a mini-challenge to test for how eagle-eyed my readers are. In the previous chapter, I made a subtle, one-line reference to a comment thread on John’s blog. If you’re not familiar with John’s blog, you can find it [here](http://www.johnwatsonblog.co.uk/). The first person to identify it correctly, both on AO3 and on LJ, will receive a wee 221b ficlet from a prompt of their choosing.

_John took a breath; it was now or never.  He leaned forward and whispered in Sherlock’s ear….._

  

…. “Epic bromance, mate,” before sitting back down again.

 Sherlock leaned back and looked at John with an unreadable expression.  He nodded.  “Good,” he said, without inflection, and stood back up to make his way to the cash register.

John followed Sherlock with a sense of unease.  He thought he had seen something flicker across Sherlock’s face – relief? – but it had only been there for a split second before Sherlock had closed off with his classic shuttered look.  No sense in trying to read him when that happened, it was simply impossible.

 Sherlock was uncharacteristically quiet during the walk home.  John supposed he was in his mind palace, sorting out the events of the day, absorbing everything that John had told him in his letter.  But no, knowing Sherlock he was more likely interpreting the data he had collected on his experiment at Bart’s.  One of the things that had changed after Sherlock had come back was that all of the more hazardous experiments had to be done in an actual lab rather than at Baker Street.   Sherlock had readily agreed, had in fact been willing to do anything to regain John’s friendship.  As if he had needed to regain anything; there had never been anything lost in the first place.

 “Alright?” John asked quietly as Sherlock let them into the flat.

 Sherlock blinked.  “What?  Oh yes, fine.  Just thinking.”

 John smiled.  “Really?  Not much of a surprise there, I have to say.”

 “Shut it,”  Sherlock said with a smile.  He took off his coat and scarf, draping them on the coat stand.   He stood for a moment with his hands in his pockets, regarding John with his “Sherlock Stare”, the one that always made John slightly uncomfortable. 

John fidgeted.  “Sherlock?”

 “Yes.  I’m just… observing.  Good night, John.”  Sherlock turned and walked towards his bedroom.

“Wait a minute,” John called out to Sherlock’s retreating back.  “I thought you were going to tell me about the bees.”

 There was no response as Sherlock went into his room and softly closed the door behind him.

 “Well, that was abrupt.  And a bit odd,” John thought.  Then again, what in their life wasn’t just a bit odd?

 Shrugging to himself, John let out a yawn as he made his way to his own room.  The day had ended up on a better note than he had anticipated ever since setting the letter on the mantel.  The two of them were okay.   John was as essential to Sherlock as Sherlock was to him; they felt the same way about each other.   John was _not_ just convenient to have around; he _meant_ something to Sherlock.  That’s all John had wanted. 

Well, if he was honest with himself, it wasn’t really _all_ that John wanted.   He had been so grateful at the confirmation of the depth of Sherlock’s regard for him that he hadn’t dared to push for more.  Especially after Sherlock had expressed such indifference regarding the progression of their relationship.   He wasn’t about to risk the deepest friendship he had ever had, a friendship that had against all odds endured the test of time and all manner of tribulations, by jumping into something that they both weren’t equally invested in.   The likelihood would be all too high that after a couple of months, Sherlock would grow bored with the direction their relationship had taken and lose interest, like he did with everything shiny and new.   If that happened, it would break John’s heart, and he wouldn’t put himself through that.   Best to keep things as they were, since it was working so far. 

The look Sherlock had given John after he had made his choice seemed to confirm things.  **B** ut if Sherlock had only ever wanted their relationship to be platonic, why hadn’t he made that clear?  Why had he left it up to John?  What would he have done if John had chosen differently?

John huffed in laughter.  Really, attempting to decipher Sherlock Holmes was like trying to find the end of the rainbow.  It simply wasn’t going to happen.  He slid under the covers, and let the worries of what had turned into a wonderful day slide off his shoulders as he drifted off into a dreamless sleep.

 

* * *

 

Sherlock lay on his bed, wide awake and thinking.  His brain whirled over the events of the day since he had arrived home and found John’s note.   Things were not adding up in his mind.  It shouldn’t have been surprising.  Ever since meeting John, the man had been constantly throwing him off track, never abiding by normal rules of behaviour and eluding the most straightforward of deductions.  John had never behaved in a predictable fashion, and was the hardest person to read that Sherlock had ever met.  He didn’t follow any sort of logical pattern, which made it very hard to understand and deduce him.  It annoyed Sherlock to no end.  It also, if he was being honest, fascinated him as well.

 Sherlock knew how John felt about him; he had always known.  He hadn’t needed John to spell it out in a letter for him.  It was obvious to anyone who watched the two of them together.   The connexion between them went bone deep.   It had been strong enough to survive Sherlock’s deception after his Fall; he had no doubt that it was strong enough to last a lifetime.  It hadgiven Sherlock pause, however, to realise that John hadn’t known that Sherlock felt that bond just as strongly.

Sherlock was also aware that John had been wanting to move beyond the boundaries of their friendship for some time now.  John’s desires mirrored Sherlock’s own in this regard.  In point of fact, Sherlock couldn’t remember a time when he _hadn’t_ desired John Watson.  But this was one area where Sherlock refused to take the initiative. 

Throughout their entire acquaintance, John had followed where Sherlock led, sometimes to his own detriment and in exact opposition to his own wishes.  A psychiatrist would probably say that John suffered from a form of Stockholm Syndrome.  Sherlock, of course, played the role of captor, keeping John near with the force of his will and personality.  John played the willing victim, constantly sacrificing his own well-being and giving up autonomy in order to cater to Sherlock’s ever-demanding needs.  Sherlock should have put a stop to that behaviour a long time ago, but he was too selfish of a person to not take advantage of a good thing when he found it. 

The point was, that John would _always_ go where Sherlock led, in every area of their lives.  This was a situation where Sherlock wanted to relinquish control to John, and give him a chance to lead for once, to choose something for himself, with no prompting or encouragement from Sherlock.  He wanted John to act on what _he_ wanted, without being influenced by what Sherlock wanted.   He wanted John to want him, full stop.

Besides, this really _wasn’t_ his area; John had more expertise in dealing with relationships.

After Sherlock had read John’s letter, he had felt his chest swell with joy and anticipation.  He had to restrain himself from rushing out the door without his coat and wallet in his eagerness to find John.  Not that he needed to _find_ him, per se, he knew exactly where John had gone.  Back to where it all began.  To the place where John had gently prodded and questioned, trying to get to know his new friend.  Where, for the first time in his life, Sherlock had been told that it was all fine.   Where the foundation of their friendship had been laid.

Dinner had been very pleasant, a shroud of intimacy shielding them from prying eyes.  For that brief duration of time, only the two of them existed, their focus only on each other.  Sherlock had given John the reassurances he had needed, and had given him leave to choose which direction their relationship took.  He had noticed the disappointment flashing across John’s face when he had refrained from making his own preference known, which only served to confirm what Sherlock already knew.  That John wanted a romantic relationship, and he wanted it with Sherlock.  And Sherlock had counted on John being truthful and honest about his feelings.

Then John had blindsided Sherlock by doing what he did best – something totally and completely unexpected.  He told Sherlock that he wanted to keep things platonic. 

It had taken every ounce of Sherlockian will to keep the utter astonishment from his face.  The sheer incongruity of the situation set his mind reeling.  Why would John have chosen one thing while wanting another?  It didn’t make any sense.  Could all the data Sherlock had collected on John concerning this point have been wrong?  He couldn’t have been sparing Sherlock’s feelings, choosing what he thought his friend wanted, because Sherlock had made it clear where he stood, hadn’t he? 

It would have been fascinating but for the little bubble of hope and elation collapsing into a soggy mess of frustration and disappointment.  Stifling a groan, Sherlock shifted onto his side and curled in on himself, wrapping his arms around his torso in a classic defensive position.  He squeezed his eyes shut; maybe he could escape his turbulent emotions at least temporarily.  He waited futilely for sleep to claim him. 

 

* * *

 

The next few weeks passed in a pleasant enough manner, or at least what passed for pleasant for them.   Lestrade called two days after the ‘Relationship’ talk with a locked door double murder of two circus performers that kept them occupied for two weeks with adrenaline-fueled chases across rooftops and dizzying pursuits across the Thames on motor boats.  After that, a relative of Sherlock’s in Cardiff asked for help tracking down a large sapphire that had been taken from a necklace supposedly securely ensconced in a safe hidden away in a panic room.   Even though the Cardiff case was tamer and more low-key, it still provided enough of a distraction and excitement to satisfy Sherlock’s endless need for stimulation for another fortnight.

It was after the conclusion of that case, ending with a grateful cousin offering to put Sherlock and John up for an extra three days at their hotel, that things came to a head and forced another re-evaluation of their friendship.  

 

* * *

 

 

 _I don‘t know why I do this to myself,_ John thought bitterly as he made his way to their room with two coffees and a large bag of takeaway.  _God, I’m pathetic, the way I eagerly obey his every command and jump to satisfy his every whim.  Why he chooses now to be all honourable and save his cousin extra expense by sharing a room and ordering takeaway instead of room service… as if we couldn’t afford to pay for it all on our own anyway.  Servant, I’m his bloody servant._

Sighing, John swiped his key card and nudged the door open.  He let out a soft laugh as he glanced at the room number – 221.  How utterly serendipitous.  Or not.  He could almost believe that Sherlock had reserved this specific room on purpose, believing he was making some kind of joke.  He wouldn’t put it past the man, he could be utterly ridiculous and childlike when the mood took him.  It was one of his more endearing traits.  It was one of the reasons John loved him so much…..

John closed his eyes briefly and shook his head.  It did no good to let his thoughts go in that direction.  Not anymore.  He had made his choice, and now he had to live with it.

He stepped into the room, eyes quickly scanning the area and noticing the lack of one consulting detective.   It figured; the git couldn’t even be arsed to wait twenty minutes for his dinner.  Who knew where he had hared off to, or how long he was going to be gone.  And he had _insisted_ that he needed food _now_ , he hadn’t eaten in two days, didn’t John want to make sure he wasn’t starving himself?

God, he was exhausted.  He set the food and coffee down on the table and flopped wearily on his bed.   At least there was that – two double-beds, not one queen or king.  Wouldn’t _that_ have been awkward?  Although it really shouldn’t have been.  They’d shared a bed in the past.  But that was before “The Conversation”. 

A whirring sound and the click of a door opening broke the silence, and John whipped his head up as Sherlock strode in. 

John let his head fall back.  He waved a hand towards the food and coffee, commenting, “Your dinner, Highness.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes indulgently, setting a plastic bag down on his own bed.   “It’s for you as well, you know.  You could have started without me.”

John sat up, rolling his shoulders and cracking his neck.  “Eating alone is never fun.  Everything’s still warm,  I just got back ten minutes ago.”

“Yes, I know,” Sherlock smirked as he walked over to the table and started taking the cartons out of the bag.   He carefully arranged two place settings – John’s General Kung Pao Chicken with wooden chopsticks, his own Mongolian Beef with plastic fork – situated side by side instead of their usual position, which would have had them sitting across from each other.  Sherlock cocked an eyebrow at John when he was finished.  He signalled with a flourish and asked, “Shall we?”

 John’s chest flooded with warmth, and he grinned.  “It’s a date,” he said as he pushed himself off the bed and strode over to sit at the table with his friend.   Side by side.  An arrangement that suggested trust and intimacy.  They rarely sat like this.  In fact, John couldn’t remember a time when they had.

“So,” John said as they began to eat, “what were you doing while I was out getting food?  And more to the point, if you were going out anyway, why couldn’t you have picked up the food yourself?  I only did it because you were glued to your laptop, swearing that you were occupied with something you absolutely couldn’t be torn away from.”

“Yes, I found what I was looking for, so I went to get it.”

John’s chopsticks stilled.  “You went to get it.”

“That’s what I just said, yes.”

John continued chewing as he ruthlessly quashed his irritation.  He swallowed before asking, “And what was this elusive ‘it’”?

Sherlock grinned, all teeth.  “You’ll see.”

Bitterness settled like a lead weight in the pit of John’s stomach.  Suddenly, his appetite was non-existent.   He swallowed hard as he leaned back in his chair and pushed his carton of food away from him.  “Really, Sherlock?  You’re going to play this game now?  When we’re supposed to be enjoying a well-deserved holiday during which we’re meant to just relax and enjoy each other’s company?  You’re going to play one of your childish games _now?”_

Sherlock frowned.  A look of – was that _hurt? –_ flickered across his features for a brief second before the mask reasserted itself.  “What are you talking about, John?  What do you mean, games?”

“You know _exactly_ what I’m talking about, Holmes!”  Sherlock flinched.  John had only ever called him that once, when a boiling hot rage had threatened to overtake him.  “Don’t tell me you can’t go _three days_ without finding a puzzle to solve, a distraction to save you from actually having to interact with another human being.  I realise I’m not the most stimulating of conversationalists, or the most engaging companion, but I thought we were friends.  I thought that you actually enjoyed my company, and might welcome a chance to – hell, I don’t know – kick back?  Relax?  _Bond?_ Oh, wait a minute, we’re talking about Sherlock Holmes, the man who coined the phrase ‘Alone is what I have.  Alone protects me’. “

The words rang harshly in the sudden silence of the room.  John snapped his mouth shut, appalled at what he had just said.  He should never have been the one to throw those words back in Sherlock’s face, words from a lifetime ago, words that had been said to serve a certain purpose, a purpose that had been accepted and forgiven and tacitly agreed would never be held against him.  An agreement that John had just broken.

 Sherlock blinked.  The betrayal was evident on his face as his cold, slate-grey eyes fixed themselves on John’s warm, chocolate-brown ones.  

“Not anymore,” Sherlock softly replied.

He slowly rose from his chair and walked over to his bed.  He reached inside the bag that was sitting there, and turned towards John with a plain brown package held out in his hands as if in offering or penance.

“Happy anniversary, John,”  he said calmly as he placed the parcel in John’s lap.  Without another word, Sherlock strode towards the door and disappeared through it into the hallway.  The sound of the door closing seemed harsher than it had any right to be.

 John sat still, parcel in his hand, mind whirling with Sherlock’s parting words.  Anniversary?  What anniversary?  The only date he could think of that would meet that criteria was the day they met, January 29.  But it was September….oh.   _Oh._

September 1 was when Sherlock and John had moved into Baker Street together for the second time.   The day they had started over with a clean slate, and had begun a brand new life together.   Four years ago today.

 

* * *

 

 

John, flushed with shame, carefully prodded and examined the package in his hands.  It had obviously been wrapped in a hasty and haphazard manner, but none of that was important.   What was important was that Sherlock had thought to recognise the importance of this day with a tangible token of his regard for John.  And John had repaid that consideration with harsh and hurtful words that Sherlock had never deserved.  Christ, he felt like the scum clinging to the bottom of a shoe.

Sighing, John carefully unwrapped his gift.  He gently folded the protective tissue aside to reveal the treasure underneath.  His breath caught.  

He held in his hands a rectangular shaped bronze plaque with the following engraving:

 

_Sherlock Holmes_

_and_

_Dr. John H. Watson_

_Partners in Crime_

_Partners for Life_

 

John blinked back the moisture in his eyes.  He pressed the back of his fist to his lips as he choked back a sob.  He traced a shaky finger along the grooved letters making up their names. 

Well, this said it all, didn’t it?  John may have been an idiot, but even he could deduce the truth when it was lying right there in front of him.   Everything came crashing down on him all at once: all the facts, the clues, the hints that all pointed to the irrevocable conclusion.

 

A man giving his platonic friend an anniversary present.

 

The reservation of one hotel room instead of their usual two.

 

The unusually intimate arrangement of their dinner settings.

 

 

 

_"Whatever direction you want our relationship to go, I want that as well."_

 

 

 

The indecipherable look Sherlock had thrown John’s way at Angelo's hadn’t been one of relief.  It had been one of disappointment. 

 

 

_Oh, bloody hell!_

 

They had both been idiots of the monumental kind. 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Where are you?**

 

**In the bar. –SH**

**Come to bed.**

**Is that what you want?  -SH**

**Not only that, it’s what _you_ want as well.**

**Knew you’d get there eventually. -SH**

**On my way.  –SH**

**  
**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That ended up being a comedy-of-errors with a hefty side order of angst. 
> 
> Special mention goes here to drinkingcocoa and treelight for their contributions to the storyline. I took their suggestions and ran with it, and I had loads of fun in the process. Thank you so much, guys! I hope that this satisfies. If anybody wants to know what their comments were, you can go [here](http://pipmer1.livejournal.com/7875.html?thread=59331#t59331) and [here](http://pipmer1.livejournal.com/7875.html?thread=60099#t60099).
> 
> This chapter ended up being quite a bit angstier than I had originally intended. I sort of had to go that route in order to do justice to the prompts. It also was the chapter that just wouldn’t quit. It just went on and on, and still never arrived at the actual romance. It also demanded to be edited multiple times within an inch of its life. I finally decided I just needed to post it, even though it’s still not as polished as I’d like. So instead of the two chapters I had originally planned on, this story will have at least one more.
> 
> I haven’t decided yet, but the rating may be bumped up in the next chapter. However, it won’t be explicit or overly smutty. I just don’t know how to do that without embarrassing myself. Besides, I prefer a subtle approach to romance ;)
> 
>  


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